Fever
by petrelli heiress
Summary: Peter/Sylar one-shot. May contain traces of smut and crack. When Sylar gets bitten by Mr. Muggles, he develops certain feelings towards Peter. Claire is nauseated. Lyle and Gretchen are amused. Mr. Muggles wants waffles.


**Fever**

**Characters/Pairings: Peter/Sylar, Mr. Muggles, Lyle, Claire, Gretchen, Claire/Gretchen, if you squint**

**Author's Note: Okay, so I guess I should thank Group Hugs For Everyone and queenoftheoutlands for the inspiration for this fic. Although somehow my mind went: sex pollen = stupid cupid = Mr. Muggles. Huh. I do not understand my mind. I can't believe I chose to write the sex pollen plot bunny over even the General-from-Watership-Down-sized one which is still hovering menacingly in the corner. Eek. **

**Warning: Swearing, sexytimes, traces of crack**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes. Nor do I own the quotes/lyrics used. **

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"_They give you fever, when you kiss them_

_Fever, if you've really learned_

_Fever, til you sizzle_

_But what a lovely way to burn..."_

_-Peggy Lee, Fever_

Sharp little teeth sunk into his ankle. It didn't hurt. The pain was a mere annoyance, really. He glanced down to glare at the offending biter and shook his leg to dislodge Mr. Muggles. Fuck, the mutt held on tight

Eventually however Mr. Muggles was flung across the room, to land whimpering near the sink. Sylar grinned, white teeth a vicious scar across his bloody face. He turned his attention to a horrified Peter, taking a sinister step forward. He blinked as a wave of dizziness overcame him, making him clutch at the kitchen counter in order to keep at least some semblance of balance.

Mr. Muggles. The fucking mutt had been poisonous. Sylar could feel the venom rushing through his veins, his bloodstream, eradicating...something and replacing it with...

Black spots appeared in his vision. He gasped and took one step forward, a pleading hand raised in Peter's direction. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the extremely confused look on Peter's face.

He woke up minutes, hours, fuck, it could have been weeks later. He tried to move but found himself tied to...the sofa? What the fuck?

When the only sounds that issued from his mouth were muffled exclamations, he realised that he was also gagged. From what he could tell, he had also been cleaned of any traces of blood. How nice of them. He glanced up to find none other than Peter gazing down at him, a definite smirk marring his otherwise perfect lips...

Lips Sylar would very much like to be kissing right now, thank you.

_What?!_

He blinked in shock at the thoughts which were most certainly _not _his because Peter was his enemy! You do not have thoughts like that about your enemy. And besides, Peter was a guy. Sylar was pretty sure he was straight. Well, almost sure. There was that one time with Mohinder...but that didn't count because he'd been playing a role. And, okay, there was that one time with Luke at the petrol station...but seriously, Sylar wasn't gay. After all, look at Elle.

He glared at Peter, who had tried rather unsuccessfully to muffle a laugh. "I can't believe you're thinking about your sexuality at a time like this," Peter said as Sylar continued to glare at him, the intensity of the glare turning from red hot to ice cold in a matter of seconds. The fucking bastard must have Parkman's power.

Sylar tried to say something but the gag, as gags tend to do, muffled all sound. He then tried to say something – possibly sarcastic, might even have been witty if you were that way inclined – telepathically but somehow, in some way, Peter succeeded in mentally gagging. So, it went something like this: -

_Peter Petrelli, when I get ou-mmfff!_

Peter grinned down at him before waving his long, slender fingers in Sylar's direction, a gesture that was quickly followed by the customary, "Toodles." He then left the room, possibly entering the kitchen although Sylar wasn't really in any sort of position to tell.

But Sylar didn't really care where Peter had disappeared to. His gaze had zeroed in on those beautiful fingers and now he was imagining his mouth sliding along them, taking them in, tongue swirling, licking, teeth scrapping, nipping...

His eyes closed as he almost melted into the sofa, the ropes that tied him there loosening, although he didn't notice. Peter's fingers in his mouth..._Peter's _fingers...Peter..._Peter..._

The gag, almost sopping wet with drool, was becoming more than just a hindrance, it was nearly killing him. It needed to go. It flew across the room, his body taking care of it as his mind was fully occupied with far less mundane things. But now his mouth was physically empty and he'd never been particularly good at imagining things where there were none.

Except now, apparently. Because now..._now, _he was imagining Peter's fingers, Peter's mouth, Peter's tongue, Peter's cock, for fuck's sake, in his mouth, plundering, taking everything he had to give and just a little bit more. He was hard as a rock at the thought, had been for ages, and his body needed friction _now. _

A wanton moan escaped him, but he was far too wrapped up in his fantasies to care.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Claire was looking a little green. "Oh god, this is worse than when he was trying to flirt with me," she whispered, burying her head in her hands.

"Shh." Gretchen, who was looking far too amused at the situation, rubbed her back soothingly. She smirked over at Lyle, who smirked right back. "I'm sure he's just...trying to get out of the ropes."

"No, he's not," Peter said. They all looked at him, even Mr. Muggles. Peter did not look nauseated, but nor did he look amused. He looked like he was enjoying himself, true, but he was not amused. Not at all.

Lyle raised an eyebrow as Peter declined to say anything further. He went to the doorway and peered out. The other eyebrow rose to join its counterpart.

"What's he doing?" Claire asked, morbidly fascinated by the sounds emanating from the living room.

"Molesting the air, apparently."

Peter snorted.

Lyle sat back down across from Claire. "Why don't you do something?" he asked Peter after a moment of silence had passed. "He looks...well, I know this is sort of what we had planned...but, well..." he shrugged. "You know."

Peter sighed and moved off towards the living room, sliding the door closed behind him so that they'd be no eavesdroppers or voyeurs, thank you very much. He knelt beside the sofa and stroked Sylar's face, resting his head on an arm propped against the cushions. He gazed upon a rather dishevelled Sylar, who had somehow wriggled his way out of most of his bonds. Not that that was a particularly hard thing to do, since Lyle had tied them.

He pushed himself off the ground and positioned his body along Sylar's, so that every gap between them was filled. They...fit. Peter blinked, a little surprised. They really did fit, like pieces of a puzzle that had finally been brought back together.

Sylar seemed to realise that friction was finally possible, either that or he was still trying to "molest the air," as Lyle put it. He thrust upwards and came into contact with Peter, the contact making his eyes snap open.

"Peter..." he murmured, sweat dripping from his brow. He continued to thrust upwards but even with Peter on top instances of friction were still few and far between.

"Shh, shh," Peter murmured back, pressing their lips together after a moment of hesitation. He pressed down, rubbing their erections together through the fabric of their trousers. The man had apparently been seconds away from orgasm and Peter had finally given him what he wanted, enough anyway to push him straight over the edge.

Sylar came with a whimper, a sound so soft and so sweet and so _not Sylar_ to be almost perfect. Almost. Next time, Peter vowed, he'd come with a bang.

He pressed soft, dry kisses to Sylar's temple until the man had stopped shaking. "What the fuck was in that dog's bite?" Sylar asked, voice shaking with what sounded like...laughter? Before Peter could really take that in, or even answer the question, they were kissing, the sounds their mouths made hot and filthy.

"I don't know," Peter said, once they'd finally stopped kissing and his brain had reassembled itself. "Something Noah concocted, or something." He rubbed himself gently against Sylar's thigh, trying to get some of that much needed friction without catching Sylar's attention."

"Why?" Now Peter was sure the man was laughing at him. The sound was unmistakable.

"How am I supposed to know what goes on in that man's head?" Peter grumbled, now thoroughly displeased with Sylar's entire body which kept _moving away _from him. "Especially since you were supposed to see Claire, not me."

"Really?" Peter could actually hear the smirk in his voice, the bastard. "How interesting..." The words ended on what was unmistakeably a purr and then Sylar pushed a hand between them, pressing it against Peter's groin. He began rubbing Peter's erection, his fingers somehow doing something that made Peter's eyes flutter closed, a rather lengthy moan issuing from his throat. Peter thrust down, needing the friction Sylar's hand granted...needed _more_...needed..._yes..._

He gasped, eyes snapping open. He gazed down at Sylar's far too smug face and really did try to stop himself from coming, he wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction...but by then it was too late. He came after one last shuddering thrust into the palm of Sylar's hand and then started whispering absolute nonsense about showers and baths, of all things.

Sylar grinned up at him and Peter couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to punch someone so much. "You are...going to...pay for that," Peter gasped, the arms propped up on either side of Sylar's head finally giving way. He crumpled, Sylar moving in just a way so that he could prop his head on top of Peter's.

"No, I think we're even," Sylar murmured. A flicker of surprise drifted through his mind as he realised he was actually sleepy.

Peter shook his head. "Oh no," he said, eyes drifting shut of their own accord. "It's only just begun."

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Lyle, Claire, Gretchen and Mr. Muggles sat in silence.

"We are never speaking of this to anyone, ever," Claire said, wishing brain bleach really existed.

The others nodded, although Lyle was a bit slow in doing so. "What about Dad?" he asked.

"I think that anyone who comes up with a plan like this deserves never to hear what happened," Gretchen said, earning herself a grateful smile from Claire.

"What should we do now?" Lyle asked, vowing silently that he would tell Dad everything in graphic detail. He grinned evilly. Payback for ignoring him all these years, ooh yes.

"Make waffles," said Mr. Muggles. Everyone nodded.

Good plan.

"_We can stay up late, swapping manly stories, and in the morning, I'm making waffles!" –Eddie Murphy, Shrek_

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...**I don't know. **

**Review please. **


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